


Choose

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Furiosa on top, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 05:52:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8477755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: “If I tied your hands, I could touch you wherever I wanted,” she says, her lips against his ear. His whole body twitches at it. Fill for the smutty_arts art prompt challenge, inspired by youkaiyume's’s NSFW art





	

It’s something they’d planned.

They’d been in bed when they first talked about it, curled up together in the dark, sleepy and sated. That evening, Furiosa had teased him, held his hands above his head when she got into his lap. Max loves touching her, but he’d liked this, too, knows she knows it. 

“Did you – we could do that again?” She’s snuggled against him, her voice soft. He strokes her back, her side. His body feels both energised and eased, buzzing but ready for sleep. He thinks about that, about other things they might do.

“Yes. You could. If.” His voice goes gruff, peters out on him. Furiosa curls closer, her hand on his cheek. 

“Mmm?” She’s teasing him again, just a little, but he’s smiling too. He has the idea of it clear in in his mind, the shape of it, but not the specifics. She strokes her hand down his side. It’s soothing, but it’s also possessive. It’s strange how much he likes it.

“If I tied your hands, I could touch you wherever I wanted,” she says, her lips against his ear. His whole body twitches at it. He’s blushing, his face hot in the darkness. Max has lived through an apocalypse and more than a decade of the wasteland. He’s been a husband and a father, has lived with what he became after being those things. He’s just gone down on her until she sobbed, pulled her on top so she could ride him. He is blushing.

“Can think about it,” she suggests.

“Yeah,” he says, runs his hand over her back again, pulls her closer.

They do think about it, over several days.

“With a scarf,” she says, out of nowhere. “Easier on your wrists.”

Max hadn’t even thought about that. His worry had been getting lost inside his head, pulling away from things he actually wants. The idea of letting her decide, trusting her to choose for him, is unsettling but mostly exciting.

They discuss words, what to do if one of them needs a break. She knows that he goes silent, knows that sometimes language deserts him. If he doesn’t answer three times, she says, they’ll stop. He kisses her in agreement.

That evening, she binds his wrists before he’s even undressed, as soon as he takes his boots and brace off. He crosses his arms behind his back, hands almost to his elbows. She ties him snugly, not too tight. The touch of her prosthetic is as gentle as her flesh and bone fingers, the scarf soft against his skin. Fabric is precious in the wasteland. When he’s been tied up on other occasions – there have been plenty, with the life he’s led, very few of them recreational – it’s usually been with chains or cuffs. Feeling her cool metal hand against his wrist, he knows he would trust her to chain him, if she wanted to.

She steps away to undress, quick and efficient. Max watches, following the way her back muscles move as she hangs up her arm, the curve of her breasts when she bends to push down her underwear. He swallows at the glimpse of dark hair between her legs, his cock uncomfortably hard under tight leather. They haven’t even started yet.

Naked, she walks up to him, stopping a bare inch away. She is close enough that he can feel the warmth of her body, smell her skin. She shifts a little where she stands, a sway in her hips that still doesn’t quite brush against him. He thinks she’s wet, imagines dropping to his knees to find out. If his hands weren’t tied, he’d already be touching her, stroking her, feeling the hardness of her nipples, her skin against his. She puts her hand on his crotch, so lightly that he can’t really feel it.

Max tries to keep his breathing steady as she slides her hand upwards, past his fastenings, under his shirt. She strokes up and over his ribs, pinching his nipple and lingering over lines of muscle. There’s a considering look on her face, the way she is when she’s up to something. Without hurrying, she lets her hand slide back to his waist, slower still as she opens the fly of his leathers. 

He knows how deft her hand his, how fast she can get him out of his pants. If she’s lingering over hooks and buttons now, it’s because she wants to, because she’s making him wait. She strokes at his belly, teasing through pubic hair without real contact. Max tries very hard to hold still.

His leathers are heavy enough to slide down under their own weight, without any help. Her hand follows them down, stroking his bared skin. He’s biting his lip, keeping himself from moaning out loud. She notices, pulls away.

“Make all the noise you want.” Her voice is husky but certain. When she leans in, he can feel her breasts through his shirt, a touch of her naked thigh against his. She brushes one finger over his bottom lip. His mouth opens, almost automatically, and she kisses him. 

“As loud as you like,” she murmurs. “I want you to.” She sucks at his pulse, where the blood is beating fast in his throat. The noise he makes is a panting groan, his neglected cock bobbing as her lips and teeth and tongue work on his neck. Satisfied, she licks at his pulse again, starts stroking him through his shorts. When he grunts, she starts to undress him, pushing his underwear down with his trousers. Stepping out of them, he’s naked except for his shirt. He’s so much more dressed than she is, feels so much more exposed.

Kissing him, she backs him to the bed, eases him down onto the low mattress. He manages to sit down without needing his hands, but once he’s there, he longs to touch her, has to force himself not to pull at his bonds. Where she’s standing, his face is level with her waist. He can’t resist, leans in to kiss her there, just above her navel. She lets her hand rest on his shoulder before dropping down beside the bed, moving back out of reach.

They haven’t discussed it in detail. She’d asked if there was anything he’d wanted, anything he didn’t want. He liked the idea of letting her choose; she’s offered to stick to things they’ve done before. Now she gives him a little push, enough to make him lean back on his elbows, and lifts his shirt so that she can kiss his belly, working slowly down. She pauses when he catches his breath, looks up at him.

“Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.” She’s not negotiating any more: that was a tease. He’d laugh if he had the breath for it. She ducks her head, licks the drop of precum from the head of his cock. He gasps again.

His shirt slips back down, though she keeps pushing it up out of the way. The third time, he leans in and bites it out of her hand, holding it up for her. She grins, strokes his side, goes back to kissing him, with a scrape of teeth on his ribs. Max lets his legs fall wide, his body as open as he can make it for her.

Furiosa sits back on her heels, watching him as she slips her hand between her thighs. He can hear how wet she is, the sound of her fingers stroking. He leans forward to see, looking past his own straining cock to see her, to watch her touch herself.

At once, she moves her slick hand to his balls, cradling and touching. She strokes a wet finger up the underside of his cock, smiling when he groans and jerks under her. Leaning in, she kisses the head, a soft brush of lips on hot, sensitive skin. Max whimpers, tries to keep his hips steady. She moves aside, kissing his thighs, nibbling until he’s groaning.

When she comes back to his cock, she’s still light and teasing, lapping at the head or licking her way up the shaft, following the line of veins as if she’s mapping him. He whines at one flutter of her tongue, so she does it again, and again, hand holding him steady as her mouth works. 

Somehow he’d assumed that she’d fuck him; he’d imagined her on top of him. It can be overwhelming, when she makes him the centre of attention. This time, he can’t duck out of it, not easily. He’s tied up and spread open. He can’t distract her by touching her, can’t pull her into a different position or hide his flushed face against her shoulder. The vulnerability of it makes him shiver, sends a pulse of need through his cock, jerking against her hot, wet mouth. He shuts his eyes, tight.

Furiosa pulls away.

For a moment, she leaves him lying there. He’s panting, eyes still closed, waiting for her to touch him again. He opens his eyes when he feels her pull the cloth from his mouth. She’s very close, eyes dark and lips wet. When she kisses him, he can taste salt on her tongue. He gulps when she breaks away, and again when she tucks his shirt back against his lips.

She kisses her way down his chest, sucking and biting and making pleased little noises when he twitches or shivers. Max is gripping his own wrists, fingers pressing hard. There’s another pause when she reaches his cock.

Furiosa is looking up at him. She holds his gaze as she leans in and sucks, forcing him to stay in the moment. He’s panting now, biting down on his shirt.

She keeps sucking as she strokes herself, making sure her hand is wet when she gets it back on him, gripping and twisting. She nudges his legs wider as she gulps him down, strokes her nub between his thigh and the curve of his bum. His legs are wobbly, his stomach muscles clenching. 

“Furiosa – I – Furi – oh…” He’s starting to come, feeling her hungry mouth and slippery fingers, her forearm pressing against the trembling muscle of his thigh. She gives a growl of satisfaction, swallowing hard, holding him steady for her lips and tongue. As his orgasm fades, she pulls off and licks up the drips, thorough and greedy.

Max is sprawled back on the bed, legs splayed and body unguarded. He lets his hands unclench. He knows his nails have left rows of dents up his wrists; he might have bruises in the morning. Furiosa is kissing his thighs, his hips, soothing little touches. 

She moves to sit beside him, prods him upright so she can untie his hands. He leans back against her as she undoes the knot, sighs when she nuzzles against his neck. Once his hands are loose, he pulls his shirt off and turns to put his arms around her. She strokes his back, presses against him, skin on skin. When Max flops back onto the bed, he pulls her with him, feeling her weight on top of him.

She stretches out, wriggling a little – to get comfortable, or to let him feel more of her, he’s not sure. He knows he’s smiling, melts into it when she kisses him. He has one arm tight around her waist, his other hand on her bum. As he strokes down, he can feel the slick that’s dripped onto her thighs. She hasn’t come yet. One of them should do something about that. He strokes her thigh again, decides to let her decide.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
